


Familiar Taste of Poison

by Yarpfish



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alcohol and Smoking, Changing Narrator, Fake AH - Freeform, Fake AH Crew, Female!Jack, GTA AU, M/M, Rage Happy - Freeform, Ramwood - Freeform, Unclear Narrator, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7868971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yarpfish/pseuds/Yarpfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their kisses taste like liquor and cheap tobacco.</p><p>"You drink too much" he never said.<br/>"Those will kill you one day" he never replied.<br/>Neither liked the taste, but then, they’d never say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiar Taste of Poison

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by:  
> [Familiar Taste of Poison ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lHZKPYQnsmc)\- Halestorm  
> [ Eye of the Storm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H1mX8ptsmBM) \- Lovett  
> [Two Lovers ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUB79zz1pu8) \- Lovett

_“I admire addicts. In a world where everybody is waiting for some blind, random disaster or some sudden disease, the addict has the comfort of knowing what will most likely wait for him down the road.”_

_Chuck Palahniuk_

 

Their kisses taste like liquor and cheap tobacco.

**_You drink too much_** he never said.

 ** _Those will kill you one day_** he never replied.

Neither liked the taste, but then, they’d never say.

 

Their moments are empty spaces.

Half a bed unoccupied, rumpled sheets.

Dinner, alone. A plate covered in foil, left standing on the counter until the food rots, and he bins the whole thing.

He stays late at the office, falls asleep at his desk.

He disappears, out of town on a freelance job he told no one about.

Empty spaces, and empty seconds, and empty silence where words should be.

 

 ** _This is the last time_** he thinks, as tattooed hands desperately grab at his shirt, mouths needy, and bodies aching.

 ** _That was the last time_** he tells Jack the next morning, when the buzz of adrenaline has long since faded and he wakes up alone.

 

This is the last time.

 

But then there’s always another heist, and there’s always another mad escape from the police.

His eyes look so beautiful reflecting the light of the sirens.

His laugh from the thrill of it makes his heart pound.

He shouldn’t look so good with blood on his face.

He shouldn’t make him feel so alive.

 

There’s always another night.

 

At night, in the dark, nothing feels as right as the nails clawing down his back, so good as the mouth on his neck. Nothing sounds better than his moans and the sound of their bodies smacking together whilst the bed creaks under them. All they can smell is sweat and sex and gunpowder.

In the dark the liquor-and-smoke doesn’t taste so bad.

 

But in the morning, his mouth is rough and sour with regret, the abuse on his neck is embarrassing, and the creaks only make the silence louder. The red scratches just hurt.

There’s still some facepaint on his cheek.

 

He can’t remember when **_I want_** become **_I need_**.

 

**_I wish this was more._ **

**_I wish this never happened._ **

**_I wish I still hated how you taste._ **

 

Some days go perfectly, bullets flying and explosions flashing and instrumenting the air in a deafening cacophony that makes the blood pound. On those days, they are kings of this godforsaken city.

On those days they are immortal.

 

But….

Other days….

Their timing is off.

A bomb detonates too late.

The cops arrive too soon, or too armoured.

Someone misses a shot.

Someone gets hurt.

 

On those days they scatter like rats leaving a sinking ship. On those days they hole up in different safe houses, alone, too cagey and paranoid and spooked to regroup.

 

He wishes he didn’t ache for him.

He’s ashamed that he was going to go find him, before he heard the sirens too close by and ran back inside.

 

He hates that he stopped to buy cigarettes before coming back to him.

He hates that he’s drunk before he gets there.

 

 ** _This is too much_** he says, hands shaking, not daring to look up from his lap.

 ** _Yes_** he replies, and watches the end of the smoke turn cherry red and the bottle empty.

 

**_I don’t want to do this._ **

**_I know._ **

**_This isn’t right anymore._ **

**_Was it ever?_ **

He realises they have nothing in common.

He wonders if they ever did.

 

There’s another heist, because of course there is.

He misses a shot because he hears him scream over the radio.

An old friend at the bar laughs at the story, tells him he’s going soft.

 ** _Whatever_ ** he says, and buys a bottle of bourbon and a packet of cigarettes on his walk home.

He’s not there of course, but there’s a six pack of diet coke and a bic lighter in a bag on the kitchen counter.

 

Neither of them can look Jack in the eye anymore.

Her open and honest concern makes them both nauseous with guilt.

 

They’re crashing and there’s nothing they can do.

 

“I’m going away,” Ryan says one day.    

The lads are indignant, he can’t leave!

“I have to, it needs to be done.”

“For how long?” Jack asks, understanding what the lads cannot.

Their eyes meet. It’s difficult and painful and like vertigo.

“As long as it takes,” he says hoarsely.

There’s an awful beat of an obvious silence.

“Best of luck, buddy,” Geoff manages, extending his arm for a handshake, “stay safe.”

Ryan doesn’t meet anyone’s eye when he says, so quiet that Geoff nearly misses it, “I’ll miss you.”

 

They pretend their voices never trembled.

They pretend it doesn’t hurt like a motherfucker.

They pretend they won’t turn to their poisons to cope.

 

 

They pretend they’ll see each other again.

 

 

 

 

They pretend they always hated that godawful taste of liquor and cheap tobacco.


End file.
